The ability of people to believe things that are patently untrue, to convince themselves of a phenomenal degree of utter cod-shit, is second only to the continuing existence of gerkins as a popular food source in it’s ability to amaze me.
Christians will happily tell you that a Jewish zombie, born of a virgin mother, can offer eternal life and protection from evil forces. Evil forces that exist mind you, because a talking snake convinced a woman to eat an apple. Muslims believe that 72 virgin, and therefore most likely ugly, women are waiting to perform what would presumably be pretty amateurish blowjobs on them in the afterlife.
At least though, the lunacy of these ideas could be argued to be at least somewhat offset by the length of their existence. Kind of like the way I argue that the rapidly perishing boxer shorts I’ve had since college should not be thrown out. They’ve earned their right to exist through perseverance.
Some of the crap that is kicked about though, has no excuse to be raised beyond the level of credibility you’d offer to a drunk, schizophrenic tramp telling you he’s the Queen of the Nile and will raise an army of crocodiles against north Kent unless you give him 20p for a cup of tea.
Step up and take a bow Scientology. The fact that this circle jerk of retardation has become such a massive, and, most critically, rich organisation is more depressing than watching a 14 year mother buying beer with food stamps at 7am on a Sunday. If I were the clichéd alien visiting planet earth and discovered this, I would have no choice but to assume that the population was made up of one over whelming majority capable on no more basic reasoning skill than your average pot plant, being ruthlessly manipulated by a small elite of utterly evil bastards, bleeding the idiots of their money like the gushing jugular of a slaughtered pig.
You’d have thought that the fact it was created by a man, L Ron Hubbarb, who was most prominent for writing science fiction would have been an insurmountable hurdle to becoming a popular religion in itself. It’s like someone trying to sell you a laptop, and in the opening spiel telling you it was built by a person who doesn’t normally build computers, but instead paints pictures of toasters. And not very good ones by all accounts.
But of course being a science fiction writer doesn’t automatically preclude you from being the chosen vessel through which an all powerful creator decides to reveal his existence. You’d like to think that any profession wouldn’t shut the door entirely to that possibility, but you’d also have to credit God with a well developed sense of humour to choose the writer of fictional stories to spread the message. You’d have also thought that he’d have done at least a little bit of due diligence, which would probably have revealed that Hubbarb was an habitual fraudster, having lied about his supposed Native American upbringing, his qualification in nuclear physics, or lack of them, his war record and his use of drugs. Fuck it though, God must have thought, if this guy can’t convince Tom Cruise that 750 million years ago billions of people were brought to earth by space ship before being piled around volcanoes and killed with hydrogen bombs, then NOBODY can.
Anyone with the faintest twitch of an intellect knows that these bullshit institutions are all about money and the subjugation of people either so desperate to believe in an after life that they are prepared to ignore all rational thought, or too stupid to think for themselves. Optimism in the decent abilities and intentions of our fellow humans are all well and good, but that we are outnumbered by idiots should never be forgotten. The viewing figures for Britain’s Got Talent and Dancing on Ice terrify me more then any description of hell you could throw at me.
On an entirely separate note, here is a donkey paragliding. Obviously no-one this side of a ruthlessly cruel tyrant would approve of actually doing this to an animal, but I see it in much the same way as the horrific experiments the Nazi’s performed on people during the war. To not laugh at the sight of the donkey flying gracefully into the sky under the parachute, would be to say its suffering was for nothing. It’s what Eeyore would have wanted.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hEep5BrexT0
Friday, July 23, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Sweating like a pregnant nun...
Summer has hit Zurich like a cop hits hippies at the May Day riots. With full force and near total approval of the general public. It seems to have been in or close to the 30's for a fortnight now, punctuated occasionally by storms of an intensity that I'd never seen in the UK. Storms in Zurich, rolling down off the goddamn Alps and streaming through the valley into town, are the abusive uncle of the storms you see in the UK, bigger, badder and capable of becoming violent without any warning, leaving you hiding under your bed, screaming that you couldn’t possibly take another beating.
Working by the lake has immediate benefits in that we’ve taken to spending our lunch breaks swimming, sunbathing and general frolicking in the ridiculously clear water, under the mountains, like idyllic Enid Blyton children before the advent of postmodern cynicism made such things seem homo-erotic and sinister. And now that I am engaged I’m happy to report that I no longer even notice the local college girls sunbathing topless. I swear to god they didn’t make tits that big when I was that young though. My guess is that when our generation reaches old age, we will talk less about how easy our grandkids have it with technology, what with their flying hover boards and automatic anus cleaning toilets, but instead will focus our bitterness on how our 16 year old Grandsons are dating girls with chests you could launch aircraft off.
There are some note worthy differences between the UK and Switzerland when it comes to summer and the weather in general. Most psychologically haunting is the eye-ball melting tendency of European men, in even the slightest bit of sunshine, to reach immediately for the Speedos, or in some cases that remain irrevocably damaging, thongs. Another thing I’ve noticed is that three days of sunshine doesn’t seem to constitute front page news over here. It’s not that the Swiss press won’t find other excuses to show hot girls in little clothing, like the English press does in instances of hot weather or the annual A-level results day, but they have clearly leapt to the outrageous conclusion that people do not need to be informed about how sunny it is when they could peel their wart-ridden arses off the sofa and take a look in the vague direction of the sky.
Perhaps the best element of the summer is being able to cycle into work, alongside the lake, laughing like a mad man all the way as I think of my friends struggling workwards as their faces are consumed by the sweaty flesh rolls of a fat man’s pungent armpit on the northern line of the tube. It’s a well known fact that it is illegal to transport cattle at the temperatures the London underground reaches on a hot day. Less known is the fact that the people who charge thousands and thousands of pounds for the right to use the abomination of a transport system, can’t blink or stand still for even a fraction of a second, for fear that the momentary pause would allow them to reflect on the inherent evilness of their existence and cause them to go instantly insane.
It’s not to say cycling into work is without its problems. Twice I have been stopped by the Swiss Gestapo as I peddled along, angelically making my way to the office. The first time I was committing the act of cycling in an area that was pedestrian only, but as it was entirely unmarked as such you were understood to know this as instinct, like a baby turtle heading to the water after hatching. The second time I was fined for running a red light. Technically I was bang to rights, but as it’s the second time I’m going to claim victimisation.
Working by the lake has immediate benefits in that we’ve taken to spending our lunch breaks swimming, sunbathing and general frolicking in the ridiculously clear water, under the mountains, like idyllic Enid Blyton children before the advent of postmodern cynicism made such things seem homo-erotic and sinister. And now that I am engaged I’m happy to report that I no longer even notice the local college girls sunbathing topless. I swear to god they didn’t make tits that big when I was that young though. My guess is that when our generation reaches old age, we will talk less about how easy our grandkids have it with technology, what with their flying hover boards and automatic anus cleaning toilets, but instead will focus our bitterness on how our 16 year old Grandsons are dating girls with chests you could launch aircraft off.
There are some note worthy differences between the UK and Switzerland when it comes to summer and the weather in general. Most psychologically haunting is the eye-ball melting tendency of European men, in even the slightest bit of sunshine, to reach immediately for the Speedos, or in some cases that remain irrevocably damaging, thongs. Another thing I’ve noticed is that three days of sunshine doesn’t seem to constitute front page news over here. It’s not that the Swiss press won’t find other excuses to show hot girls in little clothing, like the English press does in instances of hot weather or the annual A-level results day, but they have clearly leapt to the outrageous conclusion that people do not need to be informed about how sunny it is when they could peel their wart-ridden arses off the sofa and take a look in the vague direction of the sky.
Perhaps the best element of the summer is being able to cycle into work, alongside the lake, laughing like a mad man all the way as I think of my friends struggling workwards as their faces are consumed by the sweaty flesh rolls of a fat man’s pungent armpit on the northern line of the tube. It’s a well known fact that it is illegal to transport cattle at the temperatures the London underground reaches on a hot day. Less known is the fact that the people who charge thousands and thousands of pounds for the right to use the abomination of a transport system, can’t blink or stand still for even a fraction of a second, for fear that the momentary pause would allow them to reflect on the inherent evilness of their existence and cause them to go instantly insane.
It’s not to say cycling into work is without its problems. Twice I have been stopped by the Swiss Gestapo as I peddled along, angelically making my way to the office. The first time I was committing the act of cycling in an area that was pedestrian only, but as it was entirely unmarked as such you were understood to know this as instinct, like a baby turtle heading to the water after hatching. The second time I was fined for running a red light. Technically I was bang to rights, but as it’s the second time I’m going to claim victimisation.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Indecent Proposal
I decided this week that I really don’t fancy receiving blow jobs in the long term, and so, approaching the situation in the most direct manner possible, proposed to the girlfriend.
Considering I’d just arrived back after a 17 hour flight, unshaven, barely coherent with tiredness and smelling like a loosely bowelled tramp, I wasn’t entirely convinced that I’d receive a positive response. I thought perhaps I should follow the traditional path when going through this and take her out to a good restaurant or a romantic location. I could surely stack the odds a little more in my favour by lacing the event with a degree of class, and perhaps her drink with some form of drug. As it turned out, I was too scared to hold onto the ring any longer without losing it and so dropped my bag of dirty travel clothes on the floor, got down on one knee and waited for her to come out of the loo. Perhaps I should have at least waited in the lounge, but I was easily able to blame the emotion of the occasion for my watering eyes, rather than the open toilet door.
Up there at the top of things you don’t want to hear when proposing to your girlfriend of 3 years, alongside ‘not with your face’ and ‘I’m fucking your Dad’, would be the word ‘no’. This was the first word out of her mouth. ’What in the name of fuck do you mean,”no”?’, I asked her, as calmly as I could manage – which was roughly as calmly as an aircraft passenger in a plummeting, burning plane would ask a flight attendant what exactly was happening.
Luckily by this point, it became clear from the fact she was crying, screaming and jumping up and down on the spot like someone caught on a powerful electric fence, that she had either said no out of shock or was having the most conveniently timed epileptic fit in the history of mankind. After a couple of firm back handed slaps to the face (we’re getting married, I can do that now right?) she calmed down and starting trying to asses how much I’d spent on the ring.
The next few days were spent trailing around various groups of friends and family, her basking in the rapturous attention and me explaining to disbelieving people just how much one diamond can apparently affect a girl’s reasoning skills.
Considering I’d just arrived back after a 17 hour flight, unshaven, barely coherent with tiredness and smelling like a loosely bowelled tramp, I wasn’t entirely convinced that I’d receive a positive response. I thought perhaps I should follow the traditional path when going through this and take her out to a good restaurant or a romantic location. I could surely stack the odds a little more in my favour by lacing the event with a degree of class, and perhaps her drink with some form of drug. As it turned out, I was too scared to hold onto the ring any longer without losing it and so dropped my bag of dirty travel clothes on the floor, got down on one knee and waited for her to come out of the loo. Perhaps I should have at least waited in the lounge, but I was easily able to blame the emotion of the occasion for my watering eyes, rather than the open toilet door.
Up there at the top of things you don’t want to hear when proposing to your girlfriend of 3 years, alongside ‘not with your face’ and ‘I’m fucking your Dad’, would be the word ‘no’. This was the first word out of her mouth. ’What in the name of fuck do you mean,”no”?’, I asked her, as calmly as I could manage – which was roughly as calmly as an aircraft passenger in a plummeting, burning plane would ask a flight attendant what exactly was happening.
Luckily by this point, it became clear from the fact she was crying, screaming and jumping up and down on the spot like someone caught on a powerful electric fence, that she had either said no out of shock or was having the most conveniently timed epileptic fit in the history of mankind. After a couple of firm back handed slaps to the face (we’re getting married, I can do that now right?) she calmed down and starting trying to asses how much I’d spent on the ring.
The next few days were spent trailing around various groups of friends and family, her basking in the rapturous attention and me explaining to disbelieving people just how much one diamond can apparently affect a girl’s reasoning skills.
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